第 三十四 章 · CONTAINS SOME INTRODUCTORY PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN

. CONTAINS SOME INTRODUCTORY PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN

WHO NOW ARRIVES UPON THE SCENE; AND A NEW ADVENTURE WHICH HAPPENED TO

OLIVER

It was almost too much happiness to bear. Oliver felt stunned and

stupefied by the unexpected intelligence; he could not weep, or speak,

or rest. He had scarcely the power of understanding anything that had

passed, until, after a long ramble in the quiet evening air, a burst of

tears came to his relief, and he seemed to awaken, all at once, to a

full sense of the joyful change that had occurred, and the almost

insupportable load of anguish which had been taken from his breast.

The night was fast closing in, when he returned homeward: laden with

flowers which he had culled, with peculiar care, for the adornment of

the sick chamber. As he walked briskly along the road, he heard behind

him, the noise of some vehicle, approaching at a furious pace. Looking

round, he saw that it was a post-chaise, driven at great speed; and as

the horses were galloping, and the road was narrow, he stood leaning

against a gate until it should have passed him.

As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white nightcap,

whose face seemed familiar to him, although his view was so brief that

he could not identify the person. In another second or two, the

nightcap was thrust out of the chaise-window, and a stentorian voice

bellowed to the driver to stop: which he did, as soon as he could pull

up his horses. Then, the nightcap once again appeared: and the same

voice called Oliver by his name.

“Here!” cried the voice. “Oliver, what’s the news? Miss Rose! Master

O-li-ver!”

“Is it you, Giles?” cried Oliver, running up to the chaise-door.

Giles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some reply,

when he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the

other corner of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the news.

“In a word!” cried the gentleman, “Better or worse?”

“Better—much better!” replied Oliver, hastily.

“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed the gentleman. “You are sure?”

“Quite, sir,” replied Oliver. “The change took place only a few hours

ago; and Mr. Losberne says, that all danger is at an end.”

The gentleman said not another word, but, opening the chaise-door,

leaped out, and taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside.

“You are quite certain? There is no possibility of any mistake on your

part, my boy, is there?” demanded the gentleman in a tremulous voice.

“Do not deceive me, by awakening hopes that are not to be fulfilled.”

“I would not for the world, sir,” replied Oliver. “Indeed you may

believe me. Mr. Losberne’s words were, that she would live to bless us

all for many years to come. I heard him say so.”

The tears stood in Oliver’s eyes as he recalled the scene which was the

beginning of so much happiness; and the gentleman turned his face away,

and remained silent, for some minutes. Oliver thought he heard him sob,

more than once; but he feared to interrupt him by any fresh remark—for

he could well guess what his feelings were—and so stood apart, feigning

to be occupied with his nosegay.

All this time, Mr. Giles, with the white nightcap on, had been sitting

on the steps of the chaise, supporting an elbow on each knee, and

wiping his eyes with a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief dotted with

white spots. That the honest fellow had not been feigning emotion, was

abundantly demonstrated by the very red eyes with which he regarded the

young gentleman, when he turned round and addressed him.

“I think you had better go on to my mother’s in the chaise, Giles,”

said he. “I would rather walk slowly on, so as to gain a little time

before I see her. You can say I am coming.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Harry,” said Giles: giving a final polish to

his ruffled countenance with the handkerchief; “but if you would leave

the postboy to say that, I should be very much obliged to you. It

wouldn’t be proper for the maids to see me in this state, sir; I should

never have any more authority with them if they did.”

“Well,” rejoined Harry Maylie, smiling, “you can do as you like. Let

him go on with the luggage, if you wish it, and do you follow with us.

Only first exchange that nightcap for some more appropriate covering,

or we shall be taken for madmen.”

Mr. Giles, reminded of his unbecoming costume, snatched off and

pocketed his nightcap; and substituted a hat, of grave and sober shape,

which he took out of the chaise. This done, the postboy drove off;

Giles, Mr. Maylie, and Oliver, followed at their leisure.

As they walked along, Oliver glanced from time to time with much

interest and curiosity at the new comer. He seemed about

five-and-twenty years of age, and was of the middle height; his

countenance was frank and handsome; and his demeanor easy and

prepossessing. Notwithstanding the difference between youth and age, he

bore so strong a likeness to the old lady, that Oliver would have had

no great difficulty in imagining their relationship, if he had not

already spoken of her as his mother.

Mrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to receive her son when he reached

the cottage. The meeting did not take place without great emotion on

both sides.

“Mother!” whispered the young man; “why did you not write before?”

“I did,” replied Mrs. Maylie; “but, on reflection, I determined to keep

back the letter until I had heard Mr. Losberne’s opinion.”

“But why,” said the young man, “why run the chance of that occurring

which so nearly happened? If Rose had—I cannot utter that word now—if

this illness had terminated differently, how could you ever have

forgiven yourself! How could I ever have know happiness again!”

“If that _had_ been the case, Harry,” said Mrs. Maylie, “I fear your

happiness would have been effectually blighted, and that your arrival

here, a day sooner or a day later, would have been of very, very little

import.”

“And who can wonder if it be so, mother?” rejoined the young man; “or

why should I say, _if?_—It is—it is—you know it, mother—you must know

it!”

“I know that she deserves the best and purest love the heart of man can

offer,” said Mrs. Maylie; “I know that the devotion and affection of

her nature require no ordinary return, but one that shall be deep and

lasting. If I did not feel this, and know, besides, that a changed

behaviour in one she loved would break her heart, I should not feel my

task so difficult of performance, or have to encounter so many

struggles in my own bosom, when I take what seems to me to be the

strict line of duty.”

“This is unkind, mother,” said Harry. “Do you still suppose that I am a

boy ignorant of my own mind, and mistaking the impulses of my own

soul?”

“I think, my dear son,” returned Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand upon his

shoulder, “that youth has many generous impulses which do not last; and

that among them are some, which, being gratified, become only the more

fleeting. Above all, I think” said the lady, fixing her eyes on her

son’s face, “that if an enthusiastic, ardent, and ambitious man marry a

wife on whose name there is a stain, which, though it originate in no

fault of hers, may be visited by cold and sordid people upon her, and

upon his children also: and, in exact proportion to his success in the

world, be cast in his teeth, and made the subject of sneers against

him: he may, no matter how generous and good his nature, one day repent

of the connection he formed in early life. And she may have the pain of

knowing that he does so.”

“Mother,” said the young man, impatiently, “he would be a selfish

brute, unworthy alike of the name of man and of the woman you describe,

who acted thus.”

“You think so now, Harry,” replied his mother.

“And ever will!” said the young man. “The mental agony I have suffered,

during the last two days, wrings from me the avowal to you of a passion

which, as you well know, is not one of yesterday, nor one I have

lightly formed. On Rose, sweet, gentle girl! my heart is set, as firmly

as ever heart of man was set on woman. I have no thought, no view, no

hope in life, beyond her; and if you oppose me in this great stake, you

take my peace and happiness in your hands, and cast them to the wind.

Mother, think better of this, and of me, and do not disregard the

happiness of which you seem to think so little.”

“Harry,” said Mrs. Maylie, “it is because I think so much of warm and

sensitive hearts, that I would spare them from being wounded. But we

have said enough, and more than enough, on this matter, just now.”

“Let it rest with Rose, then,” interposed Harry. “You will not press

these overstrained opinions of yours, so far, as to throw any obstacle

in my way?”

“I will not,” rejoined Mrs. Maylie; “but I would have you consider—”

“I _have_ considered!” was the impatient reply; “Mother, I have

considered, years and years. I have considered, ever since I have been

capable of serious reflection. My feelings remain unchanged, as they

ever will; and why should I suffer the pain of a delay in giving them

vent, which can be productive of no earthly good? No! Before I leave

this place, Rose shall hear me.”

“She shall,” said Mrs. Maylie.

“There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she

will hear me coldly, mother,” said the young man.

“Not coldly,” rejoined the old lady; “far from it.”

“How then?” urged the young man. “She has formed no other attachment?”

“No, indeed,” replied his mother; “you have, or I mistake, too strong a

hold on her affections already. What I would say,” resumed the old

lady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, “is this. Before you

stake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried

to the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my dear child,

on Rose’s history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her

doubtful birth may have on her decision: devoted as she is to us, with

all the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of

self which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her

characteristic.”

“What do you mean?”

“That I leave you to discover,” replied Mrs. Maylie. “I must go back to

her. God bless you!”

“I shall see you again tonight?” said the young man, eagerly.

“By and by,” replied the lady; “when I leave Rose.”

“You will tell her I am here?” said Harry.

“Of course,” replied Mrs. Maylie.

“And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how

I long to see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?”

“No,” said the old lady; “I will tell her all.” And pressing her son’s

hand, affectionately, she hastened from the room.

Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment

while this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out

his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between

them. The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions

from his young friend, a precise account of his patient’s situation;

which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver’s

statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr.

Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened with greedy

ears.

“Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?” inquired the

doctor, when he had concluded.

“Nothing particular, sir,” replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.

“Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?” said

the doctor.

“None at all, sir,” replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity.

“Well,” said the doctor, “I am sorry to hear it, because you do that

sort of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?”

“The boy is very well, sir,” said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone

of patronage; “and sends his respectful duty, sir.”

“That’s well,” said the doctor. “Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr.

Giles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so

hurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small

commission in your favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will

you?”

Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder,

and was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on

the termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with

steps of unusual stateliness. The subject matter of this conference was

not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened

concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and having called

for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly

effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his

gallant behaviour on the occasion of that attempted robbery, to

deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twenty pounds,

for his sole use and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted up

their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles, pulling out his

shirt-frill, replied, “No, no”; and that if they observed that he was

at all haughty to his inferiors, he would thank them to tell him so.

And then he made a great many other remarks, no less illustrative of

his humility, which were received with equal favour and applause, and

were, withal, as original and as much to the purpose, as the remarks of

great men commonly are.

Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away; for

the doctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or thoughtful

Harry Maylie might have been at first, he was not proof against the

worthy gentleman’s good humour, which displayed itself in a great

variety of sallies and professional recollections, and an abundance of

small jokes, which struck Oliver as being the drollest things he had

ever heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately; to the evident

satisfaction of the doctor, who laughed immoderately at himself, and

made Harry laugh almost as heartily, by the very force of sympathy. So,

they were as pleasant a party as, under the circumstances, they could

well have been; and it was late before they retired, with light and

thankful hearts, to take that rest of which, after the doubt and

suspense they had recently undergone, they stood much in need.

Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his usual

occupations, with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many

days. The birds were once more hung out, to sing, in their old places;

and the sweetest wild flowers that could be found, were once more

gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. The melancholy which had

seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for days past, over

every object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic. The dew

seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves; the air to rustle

among them with a sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue

and bright. Such is the influence which the condition of our own

thoughts, exercise, even over the appearance of external objects. Men

who look on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and

gloomy, are in the right; but the sombre colours are reflections from

their own jaundiced eyes and hearts. The real hues are delicate, and

need a clearer vision.

It is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it at the time,

that his morning expeditions were no longer made alone. Harry Maylie,

after the very first morning when he met Oliver coming laden home, was

seized with such a passion for flowers, and displayed such a taste in

their arrangement, as left his young companion far behind. If Oliver

were behindhand in these respects, he knew where the best were to be

found; and morning after morning they scoured the country together, and

brought home the fairest that blossomed. The window of the young lady’s

chamber was opened now; for she loved to feel the rich summer air

stream in, and revive her with its freshness; but there always stood in

water, just inside the lattice, one particular little bunch, which was

made up with great care, every morning. Oliver could not help noticing

that the withered flowers were never thrown away, although the little

vase was regularly replenished; nor, could he help observing, that

whenever the doctor came into the garden, he invariably cast his eyes

up to that particular corner, and nodded his head most expressively, as

he set forth on his morning’s walk. Pending these observations, the

days were flying by; and Rose was rapidly recovering.

Nor did Oliver’s time hang heavy on his hands, although the young lady

had not yet left her chamber, and there were no evening walks, save now

and then, for a short distance, with Mrs. Maylie. He applied himself,

with redoubled assiduity, to the instructions of the white-headed old

gentleman, and laboured so hard that his quick progress surprised even

himself. It was while he was engaged in this pursuit, that he was

greatly startled and distressed by a most unexpected occurrence.

The little room in which he was accustomed to sit, when busy at his

books, was on the ground-floor, at the back of the house. It was quite

a cottage-room, with a lattice-window: around which were clusters of

jessamine and honeysuckle, that crept over the casement, and filled the

place with their delicious perfume. It looked into a garden, whence a

wicket-gate opened into a small paddock; all beyond, was fine

meadow-land and wood. There was no other dwelling near, in that

direction; and the prospect it commanded was very extensive.

One beautiful evening, when the first shades of twilight were beginning

to settle upon the earth, Oliver sat at this window, intent upon his

books. He had been poring over them for some time; and, as the day had

been uncommonly sultry, and he had exerted himself a great deal, it is

no disparagement to the authors, whoever they may have been, to say,

that gradually and by slow degrees, he fell asleep.

There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it

holds the body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of things

about it, and enable it to ramble at its pleasure. So far as an

overpowering heaviness, a prostration of strength, and an utter

inability to control our thoughts or power of motion, can be called

sleep, this is it; and yet, we have a consciousness of all that is

going on about us, and, if we dream at such a time, words which are

really spoken, or sounds which really exist at the moment, accommodate

themselves with surprising readiness to our visions, until reality and

imagination become so strangely blended that it is afterwards almost

matter of impossibility to separate the two. Nor is this, the most

striking phenomenon incidental to such a state. It is an undoubted

fact, that although our senses of touch and sight be for the time dead,

yet our sleeping thoughts, and the visionary scenes that pass before

us, will be influenced and materially influenced, by the _mere silent

presence_ of some external object; which may not have been near us when

we closed our eyes: and of whose vicinity we have had no waking

consciousness.

Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that

his books were lying on the table before him; that the sweet air was

stirring among the creeping plants outside. And yet he was asleep.

Suddenly, the scene changed; the air became close and confined; and he

thought, with a glow of terror, that he was in the Jew’s house again.

There sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed corner, pointing at

him, and whispering to another man, with his face averted, who sat

beside him.

“Hush, my dear!” he thought he heard the Jew say; “it is he, sure

enough. Come away.”

“He!” the other man seemed to answer; “could I mistake him, think you?

If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and

he stood amongst them, there is something that would tell me how to

point him out. If you buried him fifty feet deep, and took me across

his grave, I fancy I should know, if there wasn’t a mark above it, that

he lay buried there?”

The man seemed to say this, with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver

awoke with the fear, and started up.

Good Heaven! what was that, which sent the blood tingling to his heart,

and deprived him of his voice, and of power to move! There—there—at the

window—close before him—so close, that he could have almost touched him

before he started back: with his eyes peering into the room, and

meeting his: there stood the Jew! And beside him, white with rage or

fear, or both, were the scowling features of the man who had accosted

him in the inn-yard.

It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and they

were gone. But they had recognised him, and he them; and their look was

as firmly impressed upon his memory, as if it had been deeply carved in

stone, and set before him from his birth. He stood transfixed for a

moment; then, leaping from the window into the garden, called loudly

for help.